GUN SALAD

Marka’s wounds ran deep, but he didn’t let that stop him; he advanced toward his fallen cousin, his steps slow and purposeful, and prepared to do away with him once and for all.

The real problem was his fingers. Since he’d left Segue they’d been healing up well, but the punch he’d just delivered to Diallo’s jaw had strained them all over again. The knuckles of his right hand flared painfully, forcing him to stow Lifebringer on his back as he came to loom over his former capo.

Diallo’s eyes flashed dangerously at his approach. He went for his weapon, but Marka was ready for him this time. His foot came down hard on his wrist, enabling him to reach down with his good hand and grab him roughly by the collar.

“I wish I did not have to take such measures,” Marka growled, dragging his squirming foe right up to the rooftop’s edge, “but you leave me no choice, Diallo. You refuse to leave the past in the past.”

He hefted him up, then, bringing his feet to dangle above the smog-choked city below. Diallo wriggled in his grip, his face a grimace of pure hatred.

“You are no different, cousin, try as you might to tell yourself otherwise!” He batted at Marka’s forearm in desperation, legs wheeling in search of a foothold. “Look at you! Still fighting. Still overpowering those weaker than yourself!”

At the sound of a distant gunshot, Diallo glanced behind himself, peering down at the small crowd of distinctively-dressed drifters gathered by the southern gate. “Ah, your friends have arrived!” he laughed, lips curling into a manic smile. “I can see little Beretta down there! What will she think, I wonder, when she sees you drop her dear uncle to his death?”

Marka’s eyes flew wide. Up here, atop the tallest building in Ballistona County, he hadn’t expected to have his activities observed by anyone, much less his daughter. As much as he hated to admit it, Diallo was raising important questions. Was he just giving into his old, aggressive ways? Was it really him who couldn’t let go of the past?

Would witnessing her uncle’s murder lock Beretta into the same cycle of violence he’d fought so hard to break?

Diallo didn’t wait for him to arrive at an answer. In that crucial moment of hesitation, he slipped a knife from his vest and plunged it into Marka’s thigh. It severed something–something important–and put the big man off-balance, sending him stumbling to the right. He looked on in shock and shame as his cousin took full advantage, swinging his way back onto the roof and hefting that same blade to cleave the collar of his vest from Marka’s iron grip.

“Simpleton!” he hissed, pausing just long enough to knee Marka directly in the face. “Who cares what the brat thinks? You should be more concerned with how she will cope without a father!”

He moved to dash away, then, intent on recovering his weapon, but Marka’s hand shot out to grip his ankle. He hit the ground hard, but rallied without missing a beat, driving his heel into his cousin’s already-bloodied nose until he was too stunned to maintain his hold. Once freed, Diallo sprang to his feet and sprinted toward the rooftop’s center, leaving Marka to languish by its edge.

The pain was getting overwhelming, and his mobility was nearly non-existent. Catching up would be impossible for him… But, if he did nothing, Diallo was sure to recover his gun and escape into the shadows again. It was an unmanageable situation. Memories of their time as youths came to him unbidden; memories of days spent swimming in Pistola Bay, watching his cousin streak through the water to win race after race.

He could see it so clearly now. Diallo’s pride–his tenacity. His determination to be the best. His deep-seated fear of being surpassed. Overshadowed.

Forgotten.

Even after all he’d done to him, Marka couldn’t help but feel sympathy for the man. His fears were valid. Reasonable. He wanted power. Recognition. He wanted to achieve supremacy in all things, because maybe, just maybe, that would finally quell the raging void that dominated his soul.

What he failed to understand was that life abhorred a void.

In a flash of inspiration, Marka pulled Lifebringer from his back and took careful aim. With a pull of the trigger, a mountain of dirt, rocks, and debris–the very same he’d carved out from beneath Joan’s car during their surprise attack on Sid and Tamale–went sailing across the rooftop to collide with Diallo’s retreating form.

—

Roulette teetered back on her heels and collapsed in a heap, gushing blood all over the street. It was unbelievable. Unimaginable. Knowing Gunn’s reputation, Morgan had expected a brutal gunfight… But this?

This was an execution.

As the two Gunslingers squared off, Morgan had been watching closely, determined to suss out the Czar’s technique. He’d had faith in Roulette, but Gunn was one of the chosen few–a true monster handpicked to deal death on Montrevi’s say-so. Her defeat was never outside the realm of possibility.

So he’d intended to observe. By keeping a close eye on the man, he’d hoped to figure out what made him tick. They were a team, after all; if one of them fell, he and the rest of the posse were there to put that knowledge to good use. At least, that was what he’d thought.

But he had learned nothing. Gunn had drawn and fired faster than the eye could see! How could he–how could anyone–fight back against that? Morgan didn’t fancy himself a coward, but his every instinct screamed at him to be deathly afraid. He felt the color drain from his face as his racing mind brought him to a sudden, inconvenient conclusion:

They were doomed. So long as Czar Gunn’s eyes were on them, they were all as good as dead.

Beretta was the first to move. Still oblivious to the uncomfortable truth, she rushed to Roulette’s side and tugged Drizzle from her pocket, clearly planning to put its healing powers to good use… But its chamber was as dry as a bone, just as it had been at the moment of Joan’s death.

“No!” she gasped. “No! NO!” She slapped it frantically against her hand, as if the impact might uncover some hidden reservoir of healing waters within. Morgan just shook his head. He wasn’t sure what rules the water gun played by, but once it was spent, it never seemed to refill itself until a short while before the next big crisis.

This time, though, misfortunes were rolling in on them like a tide, and the little gun just couldn’t seem to keep up.

The man stepped forward and lowered a hand to her shoulder, trying to provide what comfort he could. “It’s okay, Berry. You did your best,” he said, fighting to keep the emotion from his voice. “She knew what she was gettin’ into. We all did. Best we can do for her now is keep her comfortable until…”

He trailed off, looking between the girl’s trembling shoulders and the blood blossoming from Roulette’s bosom. Behind him, he could hear Mimi crying as reality set in. He figured they’d both seen enough grievous wounds to know that their friend wasn’t long for this world.

“Even dumber’n her daddy was, that one,” Gunn sneered, giving his pistol a showy twirl before slipping it back in its holster. “Glad I got the chance to finish what I started all those years ago, though. I just hate havin’ unfinished business.”

Something about the casual smugness of his taunt set Morgan’s teeth on edge. Without thinking, he straightened up and turned to face him, fingers curling around Ricochet’s grip. Deep down, he knew he didn’t have a prayer. Gunn was twice the Gunslinger he was, particularly in a shootout, but he didn’t care.

Nobody disrespected his friends like that.

“Shut up and draw, you son of a bitch!”

“Ahh, what a surprise,” Gunn said with a smirk, pointedly holding off on fingering his own weapon. “And here I thought she’d been keepin’ your balls on her person. Glad to see you’ve got some fight left in you… Even if you do look like you just rolled out of a whore’s chest of drawers.”

“Hey, most of those are my cloth–” Mimi started to say, then paused to slap enthusiastically at Morgan’s arm. “M-Morgan! Morgan, look!”

He whipped his head around, ready to chew her out for interrupting the standoff, until he noticed that she was pointing Beretta’s way. At first, all he saw was her grief: the crumpled state of her face, the tears leaking freely from her eyes. She had Roulette’s hand in hers, and was rubbing at it anxiously as if trying to infuse the dying girl with her warmth. Drizzle lay on the ground at her side, discarded. Useless.

Or so he’d thought. Because with every tear that fell, its glassy surface shone a little brighter…

…And its chamber grew a little fuller.